


Raqs Belligerence

by larkscape



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dance, Belly Dancing, DJ Otabek Altin, Gen, M/M, belly dancer Yuri Plisetsky, this dj is a fucking jerk and yuri would like everyone to know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-29
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2019-01-06 23:25:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12221100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larkscape/pseuds/larkscape
Summary: “If the next song is a drum solo, too, I'm going to strangle you with your headphones.”One of the clubs Yuri regularly performed at was hosting a party. The guest DJ they'd brought in was hot, but also an asshole.





	Raqs Belligerence

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I have no self-control.
> 
> Raqs means dance, as in raqs sharqi ('dance of the East'/Egyptian cabaret style), raqs baladi ('dance of the country'/folkloric style), or raqs belligerence ('dance of belligerence'/Yuri Plisetsky style).
> 
> The song Yuri bitches about is [West Naima](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tRoldZcA2PU), which is a gorgeous song but which would drive me crazy, too, if it came on the heels of that many [other](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=13lnGSfvrvU) [drum solos](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JkJ_a_3tlcY).

“If the next song is a drum solo, too, I'm going to strangle you with your headphones.”

Yuri was a professional; of course he could dance it. But no one wanted fifteen solid minutes of drum solos, not the patrons, not the management, and sure as hell not Yuri. You couldn't do a backbend at this tempo. (Well. You  _ could. _ Yuri'd done it before. But you weren't _ supposed _ to.)

The guy behind the tables — DJ Altin, according to the venue's Facebook event — was fucking  _ laughing _ at him. Yuri could see him trying to hide a smirk in his collar. Asshole.

It didn’t matter how good he looked with his undercut and open jacket; Yuri still reserved the right to call him names.

“You just like watching me shimmy,” said Yuri, fuming, as DJ Fuckface put on… oh. Huh. This song was smooth, elastic, with sharp drumbeats brutal on the attack and then going all stretched out and gooey. It had started life as a drum track, Yuri was sure, and it was just on the edge of familiar, but Altin had chopped and spaced it, layered in another beat and an oud melody so it became something else entirely. Something that ate into Yuri's marrow and set his limbs buzzing with the honeyed drip of the rhythm.

He let his arms float overhead as the music worked his hips through a vertical figure eight, up-out-down, up-out-down, in a rolling cascade that sunk lower to the floor with every slow beat, then reversed and snaked back up. The beaded fringe on his belt shimmered and swayed, his abs rippled, and the guys at the nearest table watched him with appreciative eyes. Yuri smiled darkly, tossing his hair. The one in the gray suit looked like a big tipper.

Hip drop on the downbeat, shimmy in a half circle, step back into a chest undulation, diaphragm flutter on the roll. Fuck, he could get lost in this music. It was intoxicating.

Not that he wanted to admit it, but Altin really was as good as the owner had told Yuri he would be. There was a reason they'd invited him, flown him in special as their headlining DJ for the party.

This beat just seemed so familiar…

Wait. No.

He  _ didn’t. _

The drum kicked back in at full speed, a quick one-two and a roll, and Yuri  _ knew. _ This, the bones Altin had built the track on, was West Naima. A fucking  _ drum solo. _

DJ Brazen Motherfucker had balls of steel.

_ So that's what the smirk was for, _ Yuri thought.  _ He was waiting for me to recognize it. _

Small hip circles to turn him around, all muscle and grace, and then he started back toward the DJ on intent feet, shimmying across the open area that served as a tiny dance floor.

“You shameless—” hissed Yuri under his breath, not that Altin could hear him from here, but Altin was absorbed in his mixing boards anyway.

A new drum rose through the music and Yuri felt it almost before he heard it, doum-tek doum-doum-tek thumping down his spine. Altin looked up, brows drawn, eyes blazing. Yuri's rage splintered and fell as the music swelled.

Watching Altin's hands, it was obvious he was mixing on the fly now, melding familiar loops and beats into a collage of rhythm unlike anything Yuri had heard but which flowed as natural as breathing, as natural as the drop and twist of his hips. The drums poured directly into his bones and made them sing. It was like the best of working with live musicians, the give and take between dancer and drummer, subtle musical cues that Yuri could take and run with.

Yuri's body transmuted the music from sound to motion effortlessly. This was what he trained for, this was his greatest skill, this was what won him competitions and tips and performance contracts with clubs and restaurants. Altin was right there with him, carrying him on a wave of sensual oud and staccato drums.

It was like sex. It was  _ better _ than sex. Yuri let the music go to his head, to his hips, and danced.

 

“I can’t believe you,” Yuri told Altin after the set was done, wrapped in his veil and lurking near the sound booth. “Remixing West Naima after I specifically told you no more?”

“It's the song you danced to when you won your first competition.” Altin wasn't looking at him, which was probably a good thing because Yuri's mouth was hanging open unattractively. “I thought you might appreciate it.”

“Not after  _ two other drum solos, _ you bastard. And how did you know that?”

“I was there.” Altin’s gaze flicked up, his dark eyes intense in the low light of the club. That undercut really worked for him, artfully styled back from his forehead. Yuri tried not to stare. “Rhythm of the Nile competition, two years ago. You were stunning.”

“I…” Yuri didn't know what to say. Altin had not only seen it, but he'd been impressed enough to remember the music two years later? “Um. Thank you.”

Altin looked back down, his elegant fingers twisting a dial, sliding a fader. “Just let me know when you're ready for your next set. I promise, no more endless drum solos.”

 

“Do you play?” asked Yuri in the next lull, speaking over the music and watching the clientele get steadily drunker.

“Oud? Not well. I drum, though. Most of my samples are of my own playing.”

“...That's  _ so cool.” _

 

Yuri had been right about the guy in the gray suit. He'd been showing off for his friends, tipping in large bills, and none of them wanted to let him one-up them so they'd done it, too.

The real winner, of course, was Yuri, counting a large stack of money in the back room at the end of the evening.

That was another month’s worth of medication for Grandpa right there. Yuri loved big parties.

He didn't love the guy in the linen slacks who'd kept trying to grab his ass when he passed by and made pouty faces when Yuri swayed to avoid his hands. Then the guy had the nerve to complain to the owner that Yuri was neglecting him. It took great force of will and all of Yuri's professionalism to refrain from upending the guy’s drink into his lap.

“Fuck,” muttered Yuri, “he was actually  _ worse _ than Bearded Creeper.”

Altin —  _ Otabek, _ he'd insisted after the second set — shifted beside him. “Sounds like there's a story behind that.”

“It's nothing major,” said Yuri, shrugging one shoulder, “just a regular at one of my usual lounges who likes to get his hand as far down my belt as possible when he tips. We all know about him, but they'll never kick him out because he's friends with the owner.”

“Why do you put up with it? Why not stop working restaurants and clubs and just compete all the time? You're good enough to win.”

“Who says I'm not competing? I took first at a competition last month. But that doesn't pay well enough.” Yuri looked over at Otabek. “Russia doesn't give athletics stipends for belly dance, you know. If I'd stuck with ballet, sure, but not this.”

Otabek fell silent. Yuri counted 500₽ notes. The quiet between them was strangely relaxed; Yuri wasn't used to being so at ease with someone so quickly, but he felt like he'd known Otabek for months instead of hours.

Aided, no doubt, by the way Otabek's music stirred the deepest parts of him.

“I'm playing another club in town,” said Otabek after a stretch, “since I'm here anyway. Tomorrow night. I’d like to see you again, if you wanted to come. Not to perform or anything, just…” He looked at Yuri, gaze steady. “Will you come or not?”

Yuri smiled. He already knew his answer, but he couldn’t resist teasing a little.

“That depends on how many drum solos you intend to play.”

 


End file.
